When I first slipped beyond the traps and into the trees. When I let the forest breathe me in and did not hurry back. When I licked honey from my thumb before it reached the men’s table, licking sugar from my fingers in secret delight. When I climbed higher than I was told to climb and laughed at the wind instead of fearing it. Each time I walked beyond the last house without permission, each time I pressed my palm to bark and whispered words older than the cross above our hearth.
And now the village trembles beneath candlelight, pressed together like frightened animals awaiting slaughter.
Mama whispers, "Protect us." Elena murmurs, "Deliver us from evil."
My chest tightens.Deliver us.
Perhaps that is what must be done.
I lift my gaze briefly. The barn is full of bowed heads and flickering light. Children lean against mothers. Men sit rigid, hands clasped, eyes fixed on nothing. The air smells of wax, hay, and breath gone sour with fear.
They are praying for protection. For salvation. For morning. But morning will not come gently. Not while he remains.
A stillness comes over me then. I feel no anger toward him now. Only a terrible clarity. He is what he is. A hunger wrapped in beauty. A blade sheathed in velvet. He does not pretend to be otherwise.
But I—
I stepped toward him.
If I had not, perhaps the sheep would still graze. Perhaps the church doors would stand unstained. Perhaps Mama would not tremble in candlelight, whispering prayers into a sky that feels very far away.
The wind presses harder against the barn walls. The wood groans faintly in reply.
I have bent. I have lowered my gaze. I have swallowed words before they formed. And still, something in me strains against it. The memory of moonlight on water rises in me, bright and terrible. The feeling of air against bare skin. Of being seen without shrinking. Of wanting without apology.
I press my forehead closer to the ground.
He comes because I call. He lingers because I answer. Let him take me then. Let him leave them.
I close my eyes, and his face comes to me in the dark—the precision in his hunger, the terrible tenderness of it.
If he feeds because I tempted him, then I will give him what he seeks. If he is damnation, let it be mine alone.
Mama’s shoulder brushes mine as she bows deeper in prayer. Elena’s sleeve grazes my arm. They are so close to me. So alive.
I do not weep.
I only lower my head again and let the decision root itself inside my bones.
By dawn, I will belong to the forest.
And the village will be spared.
***
The hours wear thin.
At first the prayers stumble, then stretch, then begin to break apart. Voices that once rose strong now falter into whispers. Words slip out of rhythm and are not always taken up again. One by one, bodies tilt sideways, heads drooping against shoulders, hands loosening in laps.
Exhaustion is merciful.
Only a handful of old women remain awake at the far end of the barn. They sit close together, bent like wind-worn branches, lips still moving in stubborn devotion. The candles before them burn low, throwing shadows that stretch and distort their faces into something almost otherworldly.
The rest sleep where they have fallen.
Children curled into their mothers. Men slumped against beams. Breath rises and falls in uneven waves, the barn filled now not with prayer but with the soft, vulnerable sounds of dreaming bodies.
My eyes remain open.
